The Impasse between Black and White
by Musicangel913
Summary: They've been at odds since the day they met - she hates that he's a prejudiced prat; he hates her for merely existing. When they find themselves on the front lines of one of the biggest conflicts in Wizarding history, they realize they're facing something much more significant than any schoolyard rivalry.
1. The Dead Come to Dinner

**A/N: Hi everyone - thanks for taking the time to check out my story! Hope you like it. J.K. Rowling owns everything you recognize; I just write for fun. Please consider leaving a review to let me know what you think, & enjoy! :)**

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The fire crackles merrily in the hearth, each _snap_ and _pop _of the embers a mocking reminder that the room it warms is in fact far from merry. The long table looks out of place in the manor's normally just-so drawing room, the room's usual furniture shoved carelessly up against the far wall, and though nearly two dozen people sit at said table, the room is deathly quiet. Two empty chairs imply that they are expecting company; in the meantime, no one says a word, or even moves. Draco Malfoy, seated next to his father about halfway down the table, is terrified he'll be noticed for even daring to redirect his gaze, but he can't help it – suspended almost directly over his head is an unconscious body, which casts eerie shadows along the table's polished surface as it revolves slowly in the firelight, and his eyes are drawn to it like moths to a flame.

After what feels like an eternity, the drawing room door opens to admit the latecomers: Yaxley, and Severus Snape. The Dark Lord greets each of them in turn and gestures to the empty seats, then wastes no time in questioning the dark-haired Potions master.

"My Lord, the Order of the Phoenix intends to move Harry Potter from his current place of safety on Saturday next, at nightfall," Snape says.

"Saturday…at nightfall," Voldemort repeats softly. Draco risks a sideways glance down the table at the Dark Lord. His abnormally long fingers are steepled together as if deep in thought, his snakelike countenance thrown into fierce relief by the fire. After a moment, the ghost of a smile flickers across the gruesome features, and Draco suppresses a shudder – the sight is truly terrifying.

"My Lord, I have heard differently." All eyes turn to Yaxley, awaiting an explanation for his counter. A debate ensues over false trails and the location of the next safe house, but Draco's hardly listening. These men speak of cold-blooded murder so flippantly, so easily, as if it were merely a discussion of what to serve for tea, and the teenager wants nothing to do with it. Even if it is Harry Potter they're talking about…Draco fights another shiver. He can't deny he used to hate Potter – still hates him, in fact. The stupid Gryffindor was always besting him at Quidditch, earning bucket loads of undeserved praise from the teachers, or running off to save the Wizarding world every other damn day, but Draco knows that these are schoolyard-rooted grievances, not acts that merit death warrants. In fact – and he's loathe to even think it, knowing how skill a Legilimens the Dark Lord is – he secretly hopes the Boy-Who-Got-Lucky can do so just once more. The all-consuming darkness that has been enveloping the Wizarding world since the Dark Lord's open rise to power is nothing short of horrifying, and Draco'd be a fool to think that darkness would vanish if the Dark Lord were to achieve his goals. No, there's only one way out at this point – the Light must win.

His attention returns to the present when the Dark Lord addresses his father.

"I have given you your liberty, Lucius, is that not enough for you? But I have noticed that you and your family seem less than happy of late…What is it about my presence in your home that displeases you, Lucius?"

Nothing – nothing, my Lord!" The Malfoy patriarch cannot hide the fear in his voice.

"Such _lies,_ Lucius…" Voldemort elongates the 'S' sound and continues hissing, and Draco starts as something huge slides across the floor by his feet. The gigantic snake slides up the Dark Lord's chair and drapes itself across its master's shoulders like some sickening version of a stole, the man's long fingers stroking its head almost lovingly. Draco almost can't decide whose presence he fears more. He clears his head with a swift shake and refocuses on the conversation – his Aunt Bella is speaking, her tone laced with unadulterated adoration.

"No higher pleasure…even compared with the happy event that, I hear, has taken place in your family this week?" the Dark Lord asks in response to her praise.

This remark confuses Draco – his entire family is in this very room, and unless he's very much mistaken, nothing even close to "happy" has happened all summer, never mind in the last week. Apparently, Bellatrix doesn't understand either.

"I'm talking about your niece, Bellatrix. And yours, Lucius and Narcissa. She has just married the werewolf, Remus Lupin. You must be so proud," the Dark Lord says sardonically.

The table's other occupants explode into fits of laughter. Lucius, Narcissa, and Bellatrix flush crimson, obviously humiliated, but Draco is more surprised than anything else. He'd barely even known he had a cousin, much less anything about her – his mother and Bellatrix had blasted their sister off the family tree before Draco was even born. And were they talking about his ex-professor Lupin? They must be – how many werewolves called Lupin could there be?

"What say you, Draco?" Voldemort calls through the Death Eaters' jeers. "Will you babysit the cubs?" It's the first time in a long time the Dark Lord has addressed him directly, and he has no idea what to say. Terrified, he risks a glance at his mother, who shakes her head almost imperceptibly. _Don't answer,_ her look says quite clearly. _Don't let him get to you._ Too late for that, Mum…

"Do you recognize our guest, Severus?" the Dark Lord asks quietly. Draco jerks his head upwards again – he'd almost forgotten about the grotesque figure above him, but now he can't look away. Snape answers in the affirmative, but Draco shakes his head quickly when the Dark Lord directs the same question his way.

"For those of you who do not know," Voldemort continues, "We are joined here tonight by Charity Burbage who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." He goes on to tell them about Professor Burbage's crusades, both in and out of her Muggle Studies classroom, and reaffirms that they must not stop their own work until only those who rightfully belong in the Wizarding world remain. The woman's cries turn to whimpers, her tears dripping into her hair, her eyes pleading for help.

_"Avada Kedavra."_

The Killing Curse's green glow lights up the room like a flashbulb as Charity's body crashes to the table right in front of Draco, who jumps so badly that he falls right out of his chair onto the floor. Several other Death Eaters push away instinctively, uncomfortable at the sight of the dead woman right under their noses.

"Dinner, Nagini," Voldemort says softly.

Oh, _Merlin,_ no…

Draco quickly shuts his eyes, but the sickening _crunch_ of breaking bones will surely haunt his dreams for years to come.


	2. All They Never Wanted

**A/N: Here's chapter 2! Again, JKR owns all. Please R&R, & enjoy! :)**

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Hermione sits cross-legged on the drawing room's lumpy couch, methodically going through a large stack of _Prophets._ It's been nearly two months since the Ministry fell, two months since Bill and Fleur's wedding reception fell apart amidst screams and flashes of bright light. Even with the reassurance from Mr. Weasley's Patronus that everyone present made it home safely, she's still on tenterhooks, combing through the old newspapers for anything they might've missed. The fact that the Death Eaters found them so easily in Muggle London makes her more uneasy than she cares to admit, and she's determined to put her fears to rest as soon as possible.

The thought of the missing locket also plagues her – how could they have possibly forgotten about it? She can picture it quite clearly – solid gold, almost as large as a chicken's egg, inlaid with precious stones. Nobody had been able to open it, so they'd chucked it in the rubbish bin without a backward glance. If only they'd known…the thing could be anywhere by now.

"Fancy some lunch, Hermione?" Harry asks, poking his head into the room.

"I…yes, of course, Harry." She stacks the papers carefully on the coffee table and follows him down to the kitchen, where a delicious stew, courtesy of Kreacher, awaits. Ron quickly joins them, and the three sit down to eat.

"Feels a bit weird, doesn't it?" Ron says after a few minutes. "If things were normal, we'd be in Transfiguration right about now."

"Ron, please don't talk about that," Hermione pleads. "It's bad enough things aren't normal; I really don't want to be reminded of it."

"All right, all right. I'm sorry." He holds his hands up in surrender and makes to return to his food, but Hermione catches his arm softly.

"I'm sorry too," she says. "I just…it's stressful, you know? I'm crossing my fingers every day that this goes by quickly and we can go back to a Hogwarts better than the one we left, but it's getting harder and harder to imagine that as the magnitude of what we're doing sinks in."

"I'd just give for a minute to be normal," Harry adds. "I just want all this pressure to go away for once…and I'm sick of seeing obituary columns spanning half a page." The three sit in silence for several minutes, and Hermione thinks sadly of the countless other names not listed among the dead – Muggles caught in mass killings; Moody, whose body had never been found; victims from both sides so horribly disfigured they couldn't be identified…at least her parents are safe. Even if she dies before the war's end, she'll go easy knowing that Wendell and Monica Wilkins can live out the remainder of their lives in peaceful anonymity.

"How do you reckon Hogwarts is this year?" Ron asks.

"With Snape as Headmaster? Bloody awful," Harry responds with a snort. "He's probably turned it into a school for the Dark Arts. And don't you dare try to defend Snape," he adds angrily at the look on Hermione's face, "he killed…he _murdered…"_

"Yes, I know perfectly well what he did," Hermione snaps, "and I was certainly _not_ about to defend him, Harry James Potter. It'd do you well to remember once in a while that I'm _on your side_."

"I…yes, you're right," Harry sighs. "It's just…hard, you know? Dumbledore always saw the good in people, so some small part of me didn't want to doubt his trust in Snape…"

"But that trust didn't do much for him in the end," Ron finishes. Hermione shudders and suppresses a sob. It's been almost four months, but the Headmaster's death still weighs on them so heavily, still hovers over them as a constant reminder that their most trusted – and needed – mentor is gone for good. They should be at Hogwarts, enjoying their seventh year; instead, they're floundering for answers they haven't the slightest clue how to find, armed only with a Deluminator, a sealed-up Snitch, and a book of children's stories.

"I still can't believe that stupid Malfoy…" Ron begins, but Harry cuts him off.

"He didn't," the black-haired boy says sharply, his green eyes flashing. "And he couldn't."

"How do you know he wouldn't have?" Ron demands. "He's always been a bloody git…"

"I'm not denying that," Harry says. "He's absolutely a git…but he's not a killer."

"How do you _know?"_ Ron repeated. "He's a sodding Death Eater, Harry!"

"Ron, for Merlin's sake!" Hermione cries. "Can't you just drop it already?"

"Have I ever told you what happened that night, on the tower?" Harry interrupts. Ron and Hermione shake their heads, startled. Harry's _never_ shown any indication of ever wanting to talk about the night Dumbledore died.

"We'd just landed on top of the astronomy tower, the Dark Mark hovering practically right over our heads," Harry begins. "We barely had time to wrap our heads around the situation, to come to terms with the idea that someone we knew was dead-"

"But nobody was dead," Ron interrupts. "Not at that point, anyway."

"Ron, how on earth would they have known that?" Hermione says impatiently. "I can't imagine this is easy for Harry, so just shut up and let him talk, please." Harry shoots her a small but grateful smile before continuing.

"All of a sudden, we heard someone coming up the stairs, and Malfoy came bursting through the door. He cast a Disarming charm, and I went rigid – turns out Dumbledore sacrificed his wand to immobilize me; he didn't want me to be able to interfere."

"Oh, God," Hermione whispers, "you couldn't do anything?"

"Nothing," Harry confirms. "Malfoy tried to convince Dumbledore – and himself, really – that he had him at his mercy, but Dumbledore told him he was wrong."

"Mental to the end, Dumbledore," Ron says fondly. Harry chuckles in spite of himself.

"But no less brilliant. Anyway, long story short, Malfoy and Dumbledore talked for nearly ten minutes, yet Malfoy never moved. He had a wand while Dumbledore didn't – if he'd really meant to, if he'd really wanted to, he could've killed Dumbledore a hundred times over before anyone else arrived. But I could tell he didn't want to – I could see it in his eyes, he was bloody terrified – and when his wand hand faltered just that once, I knew he not only didn't want to do it, he _couldn't_ do it. Even when his Death Eater buddies showed up and started egging him on, he couldn't do it. By the time Snape showed up, Malfoy was shaking so badly, I'm surprised he could even still _hold_ his wand, never mind aim and cast an Unforgivable. No – Malfoy might be a bloody git, but he's not a killer."

The Gryffindors are silent for a few minutes as Ron and Hermione think over Harry's words, and Harry himself once more relives those terrible moments. He doesn't have to try very hard to re-envision Draco Malfoy's breakdown. The image of his enemy's distress brings another, more recent scene to mind.

"There's something else," Harry admits aloud. "Ron, you're always speculating what Malfoy's up to now – well, I…sort of know."

"That first night," Hermione says suddenly. When Harry gives her a quizzical look, she rolls her eyes. "The first night we were here, in Grimmauld Place. When I came down to give you your toothbrush, I found you covered in sweat and white as a sheet. Don't try to tell me you hadn't just had a look into Voldemort's mind, Harry."

Harry's sheepish look confirms her statement. "Brightest witch of our age for a reason, Hermione. Yes, I had just had a vision. Voldemort was angry at one of the Death Eaters – Rowle, I think it was – for letting us get away, and he intended to punish him. Except…" Harry falters for a moment, "he was making Draco do it. Punish Rowle, I mean. The Cruciatus – Voldemort said he'd do it on Draco himself if he didn't cooperate."

Ron lets out a low whistle, and Hermione whispers, "Oh my God…"

"I know," Harry says heavily. "I'll never forget the look on Malfoy's face, as long as I live. He looked scared out of his mind…Voldemort's using him as a torture device, as a pawn. I wouldn't be surprised if he's threatened to do something to Narcissa if Draco doesn't follow through – we all know how close he is to his mum."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione says. Her voice is thick, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "That's awful – so, so awful." Yes, Draco Malfoy's been horrible to her in the past – called her names, made fun of her hair, her teeth, her very existence – but he doesn't deserve this. Schoolyard bullying is one thing; forced manipulation by the essence of pure evil is another entirely. Ron reaches over and gives her a comforting squeeze, but he too seems at a loss for words. This war has turned them all into something they're not, forced them to grow up too fast, but it's situations like these when they realize the most that no matter what side they're on, they're just a bunch of scared kids who don't know what to do.


	3. Home No More

**A/N: Hi again! Thank you to Liger48, MelodyPond77, Sasha2121, and qwertyuiop99 for your follows/favorites! It's nice to know people like my work enough to want more. Here's chapter 3 - this one was hard for me to write, but I hope you like it. Rowling owns the Potter universe; I just play. Please R&R, & enjoy! :)**

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Draco makes his way slowly down the Charms corridor, one hand clamped firmly around his wand, the other absentmindedly fiddling with the silver badge on his chest. Torchlight hits the words engraved on the metal, distorting them as if in cruel mockery: _Head Boy._ Ordinarily, he would've been honored, elated, even, to receive the badge, but now it's more like somebody's idea of a joke. He knows Severus gave it to him specifically so he could keep an eye on him – the rest of the school thinks he's a murderer, after all – but the thought doesn't make him feel any better; in fact, the presence of the badge almost makes it worse. It tells the other students plain as day that he's in a position of authority, and it makes them hate him even more.

The student body had wasted no time letting Draco know their feelings towards him – on the Hogwarts Express, it was all he could do to escape their glares and spiteful commentary, and they avoided him at school like he was some sort of contagious disease. Even now, with autumn rapidly descending into winter, they still make known their hatred – they can't actually _do_ much to him, considering the probable punishment from Snape or the torture-loving Carrows, but the whispered accusations hurt more than any jinx.

"I'm _not_ a murderer," he whispers, trying to reassure himself more than anything else.

"What'd you say?" a voice asks. He jumps – he'd momentarily forgotten he wasn't alone.

"Nothing, Daphne," he says, trying to sound impassive.

"Muttering to yourself that you're not a murderer is _not_ nothing, Draco Malfoy." He stops in his tracks and turns to look at her – her hands are on her hips and her head is cocked to one side, her honey-blonde locks tumbling across her shoulders and a frown marring her pretty features. He sighs, knowing there's really no way around this one – Daphne Greengrass might not be the quintessential Slytherin, but she's enough of one to acutely understand how they, himself included, operate.

"Daph, it's nothing, really. Slip of the tongue."

"Please," she scoffs. "We both know that's bullshit, just tell me what's wrong." He shakes his head, amazed at her ability to see right through him. It's times like these when he wishes Pansy were Head Girl instead – she's too stupid to pick up on stuff like this – but then he remembers that he can't carry on a conversation with Pansy for more than two minutes without wanting to strangle her and grudgingly admits that Daphne is indeed a far better companion during endless patrol hours. She's also far more neutral and not nearly so judgmental, and it's with these thoughts in mind that he finally answers her.

"I thought being back here, after what happened last spring, would be…"

"Draco," she interrupts suddenly, "is this really something you should be saying aloud?" Ever the astute one, Daphne is.

"No." He glances around and sees they've just passed an empty classroom. Pulling her inside, he shuts the door firmly and casts a _Muffliato_ spell.

"So no one can hear us," he mutters in response to her questioning look, but he's silent for several long moments, unsure of what to say now that he has the chance to say it.

"Well? Go on then." Her tone is insistent, but not pushy, gently coaxing him to let it all out without actually saying so.

"I…" He runs his hands through his hair, takes a deep breath, and spits out what he's been holding back for weeks: "All my life, I've been brought up to believe in blood supremacy – pure-bloods belong in the Wizarding world; half-bloods are unfortunate but acceptable, seeing as they've at least got some magic in their lines; and anyone else must've stolen their magic somehow, because they certainly don't deserve it." Daphne's expression clearly says, "I've heard all this before," but she also looks curious.

"I thought once the Dark Lord had taken control of Hogwarts, things would be different. Only those who belonged would be here, the rest finally put in their proper place."

"But that's what _did_ happen," Daphne says, her confusion evident. "There aren't any Muggle-borns at Hogwarts anymore…so why do you sound disappointed?"

"Because I am," he responds before he can stop himself, "I know I shouldn't be, but I am, and it scares me."

"There's nothing wrong with questioning your beliefs, Draco," she says softly. "In fact, I'm kind of glad you are."

"Listen, Daph, do you know just what it feels to be branded something you're not? To have the entire population of Hogwarts – most teachers included – believing you to be a murderer, and having an ugly scar that practically confirms it?" At his words, he pushes up his left sleeve, revealing the Dark Mark branded on his forearm. He expects Daphne to recoil – the Dark Mark tends to have that affect on people – but instead she meets his gaze, deep blue eyes locked defiantly on his own gray ones.

"I don't think you're a murderer," she says simply.

"What?"

"I don't think you're a murderer," she repeats. "For one thing, you said so yourself – 'to be branded something you're not' – and for another, I was there the first time we ever had to cut up an animal to use in Potions. You were repulsed by the very idea, and the thing was already dead – no, if you're that squeamish about something as innocuous as Potions, you'd never be able to kill _anyone_, never mind someone so powerful and important as Albus Dumbledore."

"Sweet Salazar, you're observant," Draco mutters. "I'd nearly forgotten about that." There's another long pause.

"So you're questioning your beliefs, then?" Daphne prompts.

"I…yes," is his eventual response. "Going against everything you know is absolutely terrifying, but I can't help it. After everything I've seen, it just…doesn't seem right," he finishes lamely. Daphne nods, her expression thoughtful.

"I won't ask you to elaborate," she says finally. "In fact, I really don't want you to – quite frankly, I don't want to know what you've seen and done. I can't say I fully understand, since my family's not in the inner circle, but I've seen the ostracism of Slytherin House and been thrown plenty of glares for even daring to put on this badge, so I get where you're coming from."

"Daphne, wearing the wrong badge is hardly comparable to being called a murderer."

"It is when said badge belongs to Hermione Granger." She snorts indelicately at his raised eyebrows. "Oh, come on, Draco – we all know she's the rightful Head Girl; nobody else would've even been considered if things were normal. Even you have to admit she's brilliant."

"She's beyond brilliant," he acknowledges begrudgingly. "She defies every sort of 'Muggle-borns-shouldn't-have-magic' logic. I've seen her successfully do things that even most Hogwarts graduates wouldn't dare attempt. Honestly, she's a large part of why I'm questioning anything to begin with – if pure-bloods reigning supreme is the natural order of things, how does that explain her consistent appearance at the top of our class? Yeah, she's read practically the entirety of Hogwarts' library, but we both know that type of ability doesn't come solely from books."

"No, it doesn't," Daphne agrees. "And we used to see her as an anomaly, as someone we needed to put in her place, but maybe it's her turn to teach us all something. For starters, I think this is the first time I've heard you refer to her as a 'Muggle-born' instead of…something else."

"Daph, I can't use that word in good faith anymore," he says. "I've seen enough of their blood that I can safely say there's no mud involved." He pauses. "I could have you killed for this conversation, you know."

"I know – but you won't."

"No, I won't," he admits, and she smiles slightly.

"At least there's hope for you, Draco. All we can do now is pray that it'll have a chance to manifest itself."

"Long shot." He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair again. "Potter is a mediocre wizard at best, plus he hates me. What makes you think I have reason to believe this could get better?"

"Draco, I know you don't have much faith in Harry, but remember who he's got with him. If anybody can give that hope a chance, it's Hermione Granger." She opens the door, indicating that they should get back to patrolling, and he follows, silently daring to agree with her and praying with everything he has that she's right.


	4. A Beacon of Hope

**A/N: Another hard one to write. The next few should be much easier though. JKR owns all, I just write for fun. Enjoy! :)**

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Hermione sighs and runs her fingers through her hair as she scans the latest issue of the _Prophet_, which Harry nicked this morning while getting food. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't condone stealing, but desperate times call for desperate measures. It's been weeks since they've heard anything, and they'd decided that obtaining a copy of the _Prophet_ might be a good idea. Now that it's in front of her, however, she can tell it's not going to be much help.

"Utter rubbish," she says as she turns the page.

"Isn't the _Prophet_ always rubbish?" Harry asks with a grin.

"Well, yes, but it used to print at least _some_ useful information. This, however…I think it's safe to say the _Prophet's_ been taken over."

"I'm not surprised," Ron mutters darkly from his corner of the room. A small wireless sits on the floor in front of him – he's been trying to access Potterwatch for weeks, but he has yet to succeed. "The whole bloody Ministry's been overrun; obviously You-Know-Who wouldn't want Wizarding Britain's most prominent paper supporting the resistance."

"I suppose you're right," Hermione says, but she grits her teeth as the words leave her mouth. It's been several weeks since Ron returned, but she's still feeling rather cool towards the redhead. She supposes she'll cool off at some point – he is one of her best friends, after all – but for now, she can't help but notice the wall his departure built between them and wonder what it'll take to break it down.

"Any ideas on where to go next?" Ron asks in an attempt to change the subject. Hermione frowns and pulls a large stack of parchment from her beaded bag, spreading her notes from their quest to date across the little table.

"Haven't the foggiest," she replies quietly as she leafs through the pages. Grimmauld Place – no going back there anytime soon, as she most likely gave away the location that day the Death Eater followed them from the Ministry. Godric's Hollow – nothing there but a big fat disaster. Sometimes she can still smell the decay in Bathilda Bagshot's house, can still see the gigantic snake rearing as it tears the old historian's bedroom apart. And Harry's wand – oh, _Merlin,_ she still feels terrible about that. Nobody can prove it, obviously, but her blasting curse is the most likely culprit there. She can only imagine how Harry feels without it – her wand is so much a part of her that it's essentially an extension of her arm, and Harry's hopes had been riding so much on the power of the twin cores. He'd said it wasn't her fault, but she can see the envy in his eyes every time he watches her do wand work, and she wishes bitterly that she could somehow remedy the situation.

Their rendezvous at the Lovegoods' last week wasn't much better – Harry's now almost obsessively focused on the Deathly Hallows after hearing all that Peverell nonsense, and the only thing they succeeded in doing was destroying Luna's house. Hermione shudders involuntarily at how close they came to being caught by the Death Eaters and flips over the page to reveal one titled "Horcruxes". The page has several lists in little columns: known Horcruxes, possibilities for the unknown Horcruxes, substances capable of destroying Horcruxes (this particular list is woefully short), and possible locations for the remaining objects. This last column contains everywhere from Albania to Hogwarts, and while many of the locations seem improbable, none are impossible enough to eliminate. If their suspicions are correct, only three active Horcruxes, in addition to the sliver of soul still left in Voldemort himself, remain, but the task still seems so daunting. Hermione rubs her temples as she scans the list for what feels like – and probably is – the thousandth time, then decides she's hardly making progress and abandons her notes.

"Headache," she mumbles as she exits the tent. She takes a seat on a large stump near their tent and rests her chin in her hands, staring out into nothing.

"What's eating you, Hermione?" Harry asks as he approaches. Leave it to Harry to notice something is wrong – she appreciates the gesture, but at the same time, part of her really wants to be left alone.

"It's nothing, Harry," she says, feigning nonchalance. "Don't worry about me."

"But I do," he responds, taking a seat on the ground next to her stump. "You're not yourself, don't even try to tell me you are. Something's getting to you, something more than just the Horcruxes." His green eyes lock onto her brown ones, imploring her to tell him what's wrong. "Hermione, you've spent your entire Hogwarts career being strong for me, even when I didn't expect you to – it's high time I returned the favor." He pauses and scoots closer so she can rest her head on his shoulder. "You don't have to talk, but if you want to, I'm here."

Hermione squeezes her eyes shut, willing her tears to stay put. She doesn't know what she's done to deserve Harry Potter, but she wouldn't trade his friendship for anything.

"Thank you, Harry," she says softly. "It's just so hard. Ever since we started at Hogwarts, I've been the one with the answers, the one with the overly large book that will solve all our problems. This problem, though, is just so much bigger than anything we've faced before – and it's the one I want gone the most. My own parents don't even know I exist anymore, thanks to this war – do you know how hard it is to make that decision? To decide whether your family should die knowing you, or live not knowing you? Which is really the crueler option, in the end?" She pauses and sniffs, and Harry uses her silence to respond.

"You did what you had to do," he says quietly, "and when this is all over, we'll make it right. We'll go with you, if you like – help you find your parents and restore their memories. Don't let the darkness get to you, Hermione."

"You say it like it's so easy," Hermione says. "But what if, Harry? What if it's years before this war ends? Worst case scenario, what if we lose? I'm sorry to seem so down, but honestly, the road before us seems impossible. We're teenagers, not soldiers, and we're stuck out here while more of our friends die every day – sorry to be so negative, but what have we got to hope for?"

"Hermione Jean Granger," Harry chastises gently, "don't you even think for one _second_ that we have no hope. What we're hoping for is a better world, one where oppression is gone and wizards can live without fear. We're fighting for what we know _can happen_, fighting so those we've already lost didn't die in vain. We're fighting for a world in which you can be with your parents again, a world in which we can be with those we love. If love isn't a worthy enough cause, then what is?"

"When did you become so wise?" Hermione says with a small smile.

"Must've been all those sessions with Dumbledore," Harry replies with a smile of his own. "Chin up, Hermione. You're the greatest champion of the underdogs the Wizarding world has seen in ages – if anyone can channel hope for a better tomorrow, it's you."

"You're right," Hermione acknowledges. "I'm sorry, I guess the stress was just getting to me."

"Happens to the best of us," Harry says with a wink, and she laughs.

"You're right," she repeats. "I wasn't put in Gryffindor for nothing – I intend to stand up for what I believe in until the day I die, and if I can be a beacon of hope for those who need it, I will."

"Just be yourself," Harry says. "You don't need to do anything else, Hermione – you're a beacon just by being you."

"Thank you, Harry," she says again. She wraps her arms around her friend in a hug, grateful beyond words at the knowledge that she doesn't always have to be strong, that her friends will always be her rock when she needs them the most.


	5. It's All the Same

**A/N: Thank you tangerinequeen and verapaige01 for following since I last updated! JKR owns all, of course - I just write for fun. Please consider telling me what you think, & I hope you enjoy the chapter! :)**

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Hermione squeezes Harry and Ron's hands as best she can through their shackles, trying to convey without words that they'll somehow find their way out of this. The Snatchers are busy raiding the tent, which would theoretically make this a good time to attempt a counterattack, except that the friends no longer have their wands and are bound together in a tight circle. No, there's really nothing they can do now.

"They say he's using the Malfoy place as a base," one of the men says. "We'll take them there."

The Malfoys'…they're taking them to the Malfoys'? She barely has time to decide that nothing good can come of that before they're being whisked away by side-along Apparition. They land in front of a massive wrought-iron gate, an intricate 'M' worked into the metal. Enormous hedges flank a wide drive leading up to the manor, which is easily the biggest house she's ever seen – she's sensing a theme here – and vastly impressive in its architecture. Under normal circumstances, she might consider it beautiful, but she's too concerned with what awaits them inside to admire the house too closely.

The Snatchers drag the group down a dimly lit stone corridor into what Hermione presumes is a drawing room. After a brief conversation she can't really make out, she hears the haughty voice of Narcissa Malfoy: "My son Draco is home for his Easter holidays. He will know."

Her heart plummets to somewhere in the vicinity of her gut. If it were just Lucius and Narcissa, they might've gotten away – yes, Ron's distinct hair might've given them some trouble, but as she can count on one hand the number of times any of them has previously encountered the senior Malfoys, she thinks they might've been able to get away unrecognized. If Draco's home, however, they don't stand a chance.

Draco runs his hands through his hair – something he's been doing a lot lately, mostly to mask his increasingly apparent emotions – as the Snatchers drag the bound group into the drawing room. He's sick of seeing people in chains, sick of seeing people being treated like animals – Merlin, when did he get so soft? He turns to say something to his mother – does he _really_ have to put up with this _again?_ – but his comment is lost as he bites his lip to keep from gasping upon recognizing the captives. He's spent nearly every day of the last six years with them – there's no denying that he's looking at the Golden Trio. Potter's face is horribly disfigured – it looks like someone, probably Granger, hit him with a rather painful hex in a quick attempt at a disguise – but the other two are unmistakable. Weasley's nursing a split lip, and Granger looks both defiant and terrified.

"Draco, come closer!" Draco wants to vomit at the near glee in his father's voice and hesitates, knowing what the elder Malfoy wants him to do. But could he really do it? Could he really say for certain he knows who the prisoners are, knowing full well what will happen if he does? Does he really want the Dark Lord to appear and murder Potter right in his sitting room? If he's completely honest with himself, no, he really doesn't. But the prospect of lying isn't exactly appealing either, as it will mean certain torture for himself and his family once the Dark Lord finds out – Draco knows there's no "if" to that scenario.

"That's Arthur Weasley's son, isn't it? And the Granger girl?" His father is almost panting, the energy in his voice almost palpable. Draco steels himself, swallows, and makes his decision.

"I'm not sure…yeah, I guess…"

Hermione is confused but keeps her expression impassive, nudging Ron gently and hoping he does the same. Lucius Malfoy is scrutinizing Harry's face as closely as Rita Skeeter might look at a particularly juicy piece of gossip, but his son…his son isn't even looking their way. His mumbled response of uncertainty is shocking enough, but when he actually turns his back on them – sweet Merlin. Draco Malfoy has just been handed the opportunity to undo the trio once and for all on a silver platter, and he's refusing to take it? After all those years of insults and hexes, has something finally changed? Hermione doesn't have time to dwell on it, however, as Bellatrix's angry hiss snaps her back to reality.

"Where did you get this?" The crazed witch holds the sword of Gryffindor and looks positively livid. The Snatchers attempt to save their prize, but she shrieks at them to stay back, yelling of danger and drawing her wand on everyone in the room before anyone else can so much as blink. Within seconds, the Snatchers lie Stupefied on the drawing room floor, and Bellatrix demands that Draco dispose of "the filth". Narcissa snaps angrily at her sister for daring to speak to her son in such a way, but Bellatrix waves her off and turns her attention to the prisoners. Her dark eyes connect with Hermione's, and the Gryffindor stares boldly back, although she's scared to pieces inside. Bellatrix has no conscience – there's no telling what she might do. In one swift motion, Bellatrix cuts Hermione free and orders the rest of the prisoners confined to the cellar.

"No!" Ron protests against his bonds as he's dragged away. "Take me instead!" Hermione admires his chivalry but secretly wills him to shut up – he'll get them all killed if he doesn't.

"Don't worry," Bellatrix assures him. "If she dies under questioning, I'll take you next." Ron's yells continue as the group leaves the room, and Bellatrix shoves Hermione roughly to the floor.

"Where did you get that sword?" she asks, her voice a deadly whisper. Hermione knows it's now or never – Bellatrix must know something about the sword, or she wouldn't be so worried. She's never been a good liar, but she managed to lie quite convincingly to Umbridge, and they'd been under enormous pressure then – surely she can pull it off again?

"We found it," she replies, as calmly as she can, though she fears her racing heart will give her away.

"_Liar,"_ Bellatrix hisses, and Hermione knows she's in trouble before the elder witch even raises her wand. She has a pretty good idea of what's coming and braces herself just milliseconds before Bellatrix utters the fateful word:

_"Crucio!"_

Nothing could have prepared her for the pain of Bellatrix's curse. A primal scream rips from her throat as thousands of knives set her insides on fire and her body contorts against her will. After several agonizing moments, the pain subsides, and Bellatrix asks again.

"Where. Did. You. Get. This. Sword?" She spits every word as if her very speech is venomous and casts her curse again.

"We found it, please!" Hermione screams even louder in an attempt to dull the pain, but it's useless – the hurt is all consuming, reaching to every last fiber of her very existence. Again and again, the curse flies; again and again, the young witch screams as if every scream is her last. Her throat is raw, her bones aflame, and yet the pain still comes. For a moment, she wants to beg for death, but her Gryffindor courage returns and she remembers those who wait for her – her parents, Ron and the rest of the Weasleys, Harry. She remembers her promise to Harry – _"I intend to stand up for what I believe in until the day I die"_ – and she decides she's not done fighting. She is not going to die on the Malfoys' drawing room floor, and she is _not_ going to let this horrible woman win. So she steels her nerves and continues to lie, even as the pain reaches such an intensity as to test even her deepest resolve. But her will is stronger. If she can hold on just a bit longer, they might be alright.

Draco closes his eyes and grips the mantelpiece so hard his knuckles turn white, but nothing can block out the cries of the girl writhing on the floor behind him. He's seen and heard plenty of horrible things since this war broke out, but he's pretty sure Hermione Granger's scream tops them all. Never in his wildest dreams did he ever imagine being witness to something like this, and it's all he can do not to draw his wand on his aunt as another scream rips through the stagnant air. Plenty of people have been tortured, have died, in this room before now, but this is different. He knows Hermione Granger – not all that well considering how long they've gone to school together, but well enough that her screams are tearing him apart almost as much as they are her. Yes, he tormented her at Hogwarts – called her names, hexed her, even wished her dead that one time in second year – but now he finds those moments coming back to haunt him. Somehow, it's that much more personal, that much more _painful,_ when it's someone you know.

His aunt orders him to fetch the goblin in the cellar, and he obeys quickly, if only to try to get away from the awful sounds coming from his classmate. She's no longer screaming – she probably doesn't have enough energy to do so anymore – but her pathetic whimpers are almost worse. If there's one thing Hermione Granger doesn't do, it's beg.

When he returns a few minutes later, the noises have ceased completely – she's either unconscious or dead. To Draco's surprise, Potter and Weasley burst into the room shortly thereafter, no doubt in a stupidly valiant attempt to rescue their friend. The goblin moans in the corner, another victim of his aunt's wand, and the woman in question hauls Hermione to her feet, pressing a short but wickedly sharp silver blade against her throat.

"Stop, or we see just how filthy her blood is!" When the boys raise their wands in response, Bellatrix digs her blade in a little deeper, creating a thin line of vibrant scarlet on Hermione's neck – Draco has no doubt the next slice, if there is one, will rip open her jugular and silently wills his idiotic classmates to stop. Thankfully, they do, and his aunt orders him to collect the Gryffindors' wands, which he does before hurrying to his mother's side by the fire once more.

A strange tinkling noise overhead causes them all to look up. The sight is one Draco never expected to see – their old house-elf hangs from the room's chandelier, which he is very obviously unscrewing. Bellatrix screeches and flings herself out of the way just as the chandelier crashes to the floor on top of Hermione and the goblin; Draco, who hadn't been so quick, yells as sharp shards of crystal hit his face and blood runs down his cheeks. Potter takes advantage of his momentary blindness to wrest the wands from his grip, and he vaguely notices Weasley pulling bodies from the mass of mangled metal.

Moments later, it's over. The prisoners have somehow escaped, and Bellatrix is beside herself with fury. Gently disentangling himself from his frantic mother, Draco tastes copper and wipes blood from his lips, then stares at the sticky liquid now covering his fingers. He can see the blood beading on Granger's throat as clearly as if she were still present, and he knows that image won't leave him for a long while. The blood on his hands mingles with that of his classmate, and even though he knew it before, the stark reality now seems to slap him in the face even more harshly than Granger did all those years ago: no matter what label you give it, it's all the same sickening shade of crimson.


	6. Blurring Lines

**A/N: NHEE - the torture scene is in chapter 5. Chapter 4 was basically a filler chapter since I didn't want to skip directly from about November to April - it's supposed to take place shortly after their visit to the Lovegoods' house, but sometime before Malfoy Manor. Sorry if I confused you!**

**verapaige01: Thank you! I hope you enjoy these final 2 chapters as well. :)**

**Second-to-last chapter here; I'll be uploading the last chapter in about 2 minutes since I wrote them together. JKR owns all. Let me know what you think, & I hope you enjoy! :)**

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Shouts of spells, followed by screams, echo through the corridors as another explosion rocks the castle. It's been that way since they arrived, and the battle shows no signs of letting up anytime soon. Hermione grips her wand tightly in her hand, taking care not to cut herself accidentally on the mass of fangs in her arms as she and Ron make their way down yet another secret passage.

"Where the bloody hell is he?" Ron asks exasperatedly.

"Ron, please!" Hermione sighs. "We both know Hogwarts is enormous; Harry could be anywhere! We'll find him soon enough." She stops speaking then, but they both add a silent 'I hope' to her declaration. Harry's definitely still alive - she highly doubts Voldemort would let his nemesis' death go unnoticed - but the fact that they've been searching for nearly fifteen minutes without success is still rather discouraging.

Luck seems to be on their side for now, though, because they stumble out of the passageway and almost run right over the boy in question.

"Where have you been?" Harry sounds both frustrated and relieved.

"Chamber of Secrets," Ron replies.

_"What?"_ Hermione stifles a laugh at the incredulous look on her friend's face as Ron explains their detour. When prompted, Hermione extracts the now-unrecognizable cup from her robes and holds it up for Harry to see. Harry quickly fills them in on what they've missed and makes to charge down the corridor, but Ron stops him.

"Wait! What about the house-elves?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asks, and Hermione stares at the redhead in shock. When Ron explains himself, she immediately drops her armful of fangs and throws her arms around his neck. The kiss is so awkward, so poorly timed, and just so _wrong_, but she can't help it - Ron's words have just proven to her that there's still some hope after all, and she's not about to let that go.

"Oi!" Harry shouts, but his friends cling to each other for several more seconds before finally breaking apart. Ron's face is as red as his hair, and Hermione can tell from his expression that he's not sure what to make of it either.

"It's okay," she tells him with her eyes. "You're still my best friend and I'll always love you for it; nothing will ever change that." Thankfully, he seems to get the message, because he nods and gives her a squeeze before turning to Harry once more. Harry runs his hand through his perpetually messy hair, takes a deep breath, and says, "Let's go get that diadem." Without another word, the trio race off towards the Room of Requirement.

Draco paces the length of a seventh-floor corridor, the distant sounds of combat echoing in his ears. Crabbe and Goyle follow close behind, but something about them seems different, and Draco is more than a little unsettled. For so long, the two larger boys have followed his every command without hesitation, but now...Crabbe and Goyle have proven themselves rather ruthless torturers this year, and Draco wouldn't put it past them to pull their wands on even him if it meant another chance at a good _Crucio._

"What's a die-dum?" Crabbe asks suddenly.

"A what?" Draco's used to the boy's inability to put together a proper sentence, but he can't fathom for the life of him what Crabbe means.

"A die-dum. I just heard Potter say something about a die-dum."

"Potter? Where did he go?"

"That way." Crabbe points down a familiar corridor. "Him, the Weasel, and the Mudblood." Draco winces at the mention of Granger - he still can't get the image of her gently dripping blood out of his mind - but focuses on the more pressing question: what is Potter after, and why? Casting a Disillusionment charm on himself and motioning for Crabbe and Goyle to do the same, he silently makes his way down the corridor Crabbe indicated. After a moment, Draco sees the sole of a trainer vanishing behind a large door, which melts back into nonexistence amidst a bare stretch of stone.

"Of course," he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else, "The Room of Hidden Things." Pacing rapidly back and forth in front of the spot, he concentrates hard on the room in which everything fell apart last June. As always, the door appears on his third passing, and the three boys enter quietly, listening hard for any indication of their quarry.

"What is this?" Hermione asks in awe. The Room of Requirement has become a veritable cathedral of junk, rows upon rows of neglected objects stretching only Merlin knows how far.

"Exactly what it looks like," Harry replies, "a hiding place. I think students have been hiding stuff in here for centuries."

"And what did _you_ have to hide?" Hermione asks.

"My potions book," Harry says quietly. He doesn't need to say anything further; Hermione knows he means the half-blood prince's book that caused so much trouble the previous year.

"Should we split up, you reckon?" Ron says hesitantly. "This could take ages..."

"Not if you know what you're looking for." Harry gives them a quick description of the diadem's hiding place, and they set off through the piles of broken, stained, and otherwise abandoned treasures towering over their heads. They soon reach a fork and split off in different directions, vanishing into the midst of Hogwarts' forgotten.

Draco proceeds slowly through the stacks of junk, unsure of where to start his search. He still has no idea what Potter's looking for, and even if he did, the thing could be anywhere, so he decides that finding the boy himself is the next best course. He hears rummaging up ahead and turns the corner to find the Gryffindor reaching for what looks like an old tiara.

"Stop right there, Potter." The dark-haired wizard whips out his wand and turns on the Slytherins faster than Draco expected - clearly being on the run has honed his lightning-fast Quidditch reflexes even more.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" The venom in Potter's tone is unmistakable. Draco's eyes narrow as he recognizes the wand in his rival's hand.

"That's my wand."

"Ten points to Slytherin," Potter replies sardonically. "Who's have you got, then?"

"It's my mother's," Draco says softly. He'd tried so hard to refuse - the thought of leaving his mother wandless in the Dark Lord's presence scared him to pieces - but she'd insisted.

"You can't go back to school without a wand, Draco," she'd said. "Ollivander may be gone, but I have time to find a replacement before anything happens." He'd come so close to telling her that he didn't want to go back to school at all - the incident in the drawing room had unsettled him greatly, and Hogwarts, especially patrols, reminded him constantly of the bushy-haired witch, but to admit as much aloud was akin to a death sentence, so he'd kept his mouth shut and done as his mother wished. Now that things _were_ happening, though, he couldn't help but wonder: _had_ she managed to find a new wand? And if not, was she alright?

Hermione hears voices not too far from her and pauses in her search.

"Harry?" she calls. "Is everything alright?" She heads toward the sound and finds herself behind Harry, who is exchanging death glares and sharp words with their least favorite classmates.

"It's that Mudblood!" Crabbe cries out. _"Avada Kedavra!" _Hermione throws herself out of the way just in time, and the acid green jet crashes into a stack of rusted cauldrons, which topples to the floor with an enormous crash.

"Stop!" Draco shouts. "You'll bury this diadem thing!" His words do no good, however; Crabbe angrily retorts that he'll listen to Draco no longer and fires off another curse, darting off into the sea of junk. Harry lets out an angry yell and fires off a jinx of his own; Malfoy ducks but drops his wand, which rolls out of sight.

"Harry!" Hermione's scream sends a jolt of fear through Draco's chest; it's a sound he'd hoped to never hear again. Crabbe, followed closely by Ron, comes pelting around the corner.

"Like it hot, scum?" Crabbe asks, but he looks terrified. Just behind him, a gigantic column of fire lets out a huge roar, the flames twisting to form the shapes of their nightmares as it devours everything in its path. The six students bolt in all directions, but the fire is far beyond their control. Hermione thinks she knows what Crabbe's done, and if she's right, they'll be charred to a crisp in a matter of minutes if they don't find a way out soon. She, Harry, and Ron pause at a crossroads, clutching their sides. The Slytherins have disappeared, and even though Hermione knows it's Crabbe's fault, she can't help but feel a pang in her chest. What a horrible way to die...

"Here!" Harry shouts, tossing an ancient-looking broom towards Ron. "Take Hermione on yours, there's only two." Hermione wraps her arms tightly around Ron's middle, and they ascend as rapidly as the old brooms will allow.

"The door's that way!" she shouts, but halfway there, a frantic scream reaches their ears. Miraculously, at least one of their classmates is still alive. Harry does an about-face and quickly begins circling, desperately trying to spot any signs of life through the thick smoke. The fire sends another column toppling to the floor, and they finally spot Malfoy and Goyle, perched precariously atop a mountain of broken desks.

Draco clings to his unconscious housemate but can't see a way out. They're off the floor for now, but the inferno will engulf the desks soon, and they'll be done for. High above his head, he sees Potter circling, obviously searching for something. Could it be he heard his cry? No - there's no way he could be so lucky...but Potter suddenly rockets straight towards them, and Draco manages to let go of the desk long enough to reach out to him. Their hands are slick with sweat from the oppressive heat and fail to connect; Draco frantically wipes his on his robe. The blaze is closing in fast; Potter will only have one more chance. Somehow, he manages to grip Potter's hand long enough to haul himself onto the back of the broom, and Weasley and Granger pull Goyle onto theirs. The group makes for the door as the fire consumes the last of the detritus, and they tumble out into the corridor just before the broom tails can ignite. Gasping for air, they struggle into a sitting position.

Hermione collapses on her back in the middle of the corridor, stunned at the turn of events. Fiendfyre - it was Fiendfyre. Her suspicions are confirmed when the remains of the diadem break apart in Harry's hands, crumbling into nothing. Behind her, Malfoy coughs and splutters.

"C-Crabbe..." he chokes.

"He's dead," Ron says harshly. Hermione cringes at his tone but doesn't doubt his words; there's no way anyone could survive something like that. She feels almost sorry for the two Slytherins, who look completely lost, and she feels even worse when she considers that the three boys could hardly even be called real friends. Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass were close at school, so she knows Slytherins aren't incapable of forming tight-knit bonds, and the thought that these two boys might not have those connections makes her sad; she doesn't think she'd have made it this far without Harry and Ron.

A commotion nearby brings them all to attention, and they turn to see a group of wizards dueling fiercely, among them Fred and Percy Weasley. Spells fly in all directions and, without warning, the corridor suddenly explodes, enormous stones and other deadly debris raining down in all directions.

Once the attack subsides, the corridor is quiet - too quiet. Hermione hauls herself from the wreckage and surveys the scene - the immediate vicinity looks like a bombing zone, and everything is coated in a thick layer of dust.

"No...Fred, _no!" _The cry rips at her gut as she turns toward the sound. Ron and Percy are hunched together on the ground, tears streaming down their faces as they desperately try to revive their fallen brother. Hermione gasps and claps her hand to her mouth, her own tears pouring freely as the reality of the situation hits her. Fred Weasley just can't be dead...he _can't..._

Draco wriggles out from under a huge beam and stares at the destruction before him. Nothing he's seen before compares; nothing hits home more than seeing Hogwarts being destroyed. An anguished yell brings his focus to a group of redheads crouched on the floor, and his stomach turns as he fully takes in the sight - one of the Weasley twins is dead. He's never cared for the Weasleys, the blood traitor, dirt-poor disgraces that they are, but the sight of one lying dead in the middle of the hallway hits him almost as harshly as Hermione Granger's torture - someone he knows, albeit not well, is dead. Someone just two years his senior will never live to see the dawn. Unable to take it any longer, he disappears as quickly and quietly as he can - if he wants even the slimmest chance of surviving, he's going to have to find a wand.


	7. The Impasse between Black and White

**A/N: Last chapter! Thank you to all who have taken a look at this - I had great fun writing it. My next project is an eighth year fic, which I'm really excited to start. JKR owns the Harry Potter universe; I'm just playing. Enjoy! :)**

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"Ron...Ron, there's nothing we can do!" Hermione's voice is thick with tears, the salty drops still cascading down her face, but her friend is much worse. He looks ready to launch his own attack, and she knows she has to calm him before he gets himself killed too. "Please," she whispers, her heart aching for the broken men before her. "We've got to stay strong...for Fred..." She bites her lip, but somehow, she gets through to Ron. Harry helps him haul his brother's body into an out-of-the-way nook as Percy takes off in pursuit of the Death Eater responsible.

"We've got to end this," Ron whispers, his voice cracking but deadly. The others nod, raise their wands, and race off in the opposite direction of Percy - the snake is all that's left now.

Draco hurtles down staircase after staircase - where he's going, he has no idea, but getting away from the Acromantulas overrunning the upper floors seems like a good start. He jumps half a flight of stairs, several of them broken, and narrowly avoids taking someone down with him. The person turns, and Draco finds himself looking into the masked face of a Death Eater.

"Ah, the little Malfoy." Thanks to the mask, Draco can't tell who he's facing, but the sneer in the man's tone definitely isn't friendly. "Come to play?"

"I...what are you talking about?" Draco asks.

"I haven't seen you since this whole thing started." The man's voice drips contempt. "Decided you don't want to join in the fun?"

"I...no!" Try as he might, Draco can't stop his voice from shaking.

"I thought not."

"But you know who I am!" Draco says desperately. "I'm on your side!"

"Hardly. We don't have room for deserters." The Death Eater raises his wand.

"STUPEFY!" The shout rings through the corridor and Draco's would-be assailant topples over backwards, splayed out across the landing. Draco turns towards the sound but joins the body on the floor almost instantly when a fist connects sharply with his face.

"And that's the second time we've saved your life tonight, you two-faced bastard!" The voice belongs unmistakably to Ron Weasley, although he can't see the redhead anywhere. An exceptionally good Disillusionment charm? Or maybe it's that blasted cloak of Potter's...the sound of several pairs of feet travels down the stairs, and Draco wipes blood from his nose. Looking down at the Stunned man next to him, he realizes the trio has done him more than one favor as he grabs the fallen Death Eater's wand. The wand feels foreign and not particularly friendly, but it's better than nothing. Without a backward glance, he continues his descent.

The Entrance Hall is mass chaos - jets of light fly in all directions, Professor Trelawney hurls crystal balls from the top of the marble staircase, and Neville Longbottom possesses a large amount of some deadly looking plant, the tentacles of which are currently reeling in several Death Eaters. Draco ducks as a blast of light hurtles over his head, shattering the Slytherin hourglass with a deafening crash. Glass shards fly through the air and emeralds tumble to the floor, mixing with puddles of blood and the already-spilt Gryffindor rubies in some sort of twisted yuletide nightmare. For a split second, Draco contemplates breaking the remaining two hourglasses just to get rid of the image, but he decides against it - a war zone is no place for something as innocent as a rainbow. Instead, he tears off into the grounds and takes up with the first foe he finds.

Hermione gasps for breath and clutches her side as she slides down the wall in the Entrance Hall. The castle is eerily quiet at the moment, the Death Eaters having retreated nearly an hour ago, and she's trying desperately not to think about the plethora of familiar faces lying amongst the dead in the Great Hall. She lost track of time ages ago and desperately needs a shower and a good night's sleep, but neither of those can come until the battle ends for good, and even then she's not sure the latter is possible after the night's traumatizing events. Raucous shouts direct her attention to the main doors, and a crowd quickly gathers on the front steps as a group of black-robed people approaches. In front of this group walks Hagrid, and in his arms is...Harry. No..._no..._

"Harry Potter is dead!" Voldemort's voice cuts through the black night like a knife, and Hermione's heart drops out of her chest.

"He's lying," she says to herself. "He _has _to be lying..." She refuses to look at the body at Voldemort's feet, refuses to even think of it as a body, because that would be accepting that he's...

"I'll join you when hell freezes over. Dumbledore's army!" Neville's shout brings her back to reality, and she can't help but admire her housemate's daring move. She's not sure where this new Neville came from, but she's pretty sure he's more courageous than the rest of her house combined.

The next few minutes are tense - Neville and Voldemort exchange words, and it seems like Neville's time is up. Just as the Sorting Hat goes up in flames, Neville reacts, drawing a magnificent silver sword from the ragged hat's depths and slicing off Nagini's head in one swift stroke. Hermione cheers with the rest and resolves to thank Neville profoundly if they get through this - if he only knew the significance of what he'd just done...

"Harry! Where's Harry?" Hagrid suddenly shouts, and mass pandemonium erupts. The front doors are thrown open as the battle resumes in full force, Death Eaters and Hogwartians dueling their way into the Great Hall. Hermione soon finds herself side-by-side with Ginny and Luna, the three of them fiercely battling Bellatrix Lestrange. The crazed witch cackles madly as she recognizes her torture victim, and Hermione wants nothing more than to wipe the mad smirk off the woman's face. However, it's no easy task - Bellatrix has incredible skills and a full arsenal of dark spells Hermione's never heard of, and it's all the three teenagers can do to stay on their feet as they block curse after curse.

"NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!" Molly Weasley leaps into the fray, and Hermione has never seen her so angry. She, Ginny, and Luna back away as the two elder witches start dueling furiously, the speed of their spells the likes of which none of them have ever seen. Everyone in the Hall seems momentarily fixated on the battling witches, in awe of the ferocity of their fight. Hermione senses what's about to happen a split second before it does - Bellatrix lets out a great bark of laughter just before a jet from Molly's wand strikes her square in the chest, and she topples to the ground almost gracefully, a look of enraged shock upon her face. Voldemort lets out an angry roar at the death of his loyal servant and sends a jet of green towards Molly.

"PROTEGO!"

The shield charm absorbs the curse and Hermione's heart leaps with joy - _she knows that voice! _Sure enough, Harry Potter, very much alive and whole, throws off the invisibility cloak seconds later to face his foe. The Hall falls silent as the two circle each other in a deadly dance.

Hermione doesn't understand most of Harry's proclamations - he seems to have watched Snape's memories in the pensieve - but some things are indeed clicking into place. She gasps softly when Harry mentions the elder wand and fights the urge to be sick as she realizes just how Voldemort acquired it. She'll have to ask Harry to explain the finer details again later; she's still too much in shock.

"Does the wand in your hand know its last master was disarmed? Because if it does, then I am the true master of the elder wand."

A sharp intake of breath ripples through the room as Harry and Voldemort raise their wands and send forth what everyone knows will be their final confrontation:

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

_"Expelliarmus!"_

Hermione wants to laugh at her friend's choice of spell - his signature move, through and through - but instead, she watches as the two spells collide in a flash of gold and a bang like a gunshot. When the smoke clears, she sees Harry, holding two wands instead of one and looking tired but otherwise unhurt, with Voldemort at his feet, unmistakably dead.

The roar of the crowd rivals that of the Fiendfyre as the onlookers surge forward in celebration. Hermione pushes her way through and throws her arms around Harry, tears streaming down her face as she rejoices. Ron joins them for a group hug, and they nearly suffocate as everyone tries to get closer. It's over - _it's finally over._

An indeterminate amount of time later, Hermione sits beside Neville at the Gryffindor table, quietly munching on a piece of toast. Harry went up to bed ages ago – goodness knows he needs the sleep, and the quiet – and Ron is with his family. Her heart goes out to them for all they've lost, as well as to everyone else suffering from the irreversible effects of war. Unable to stomach any more food, she instead surveys the scene in the Great Hall. The dead have been moved to the platform normally occupied by the high table, which Professor McGonagall temporarily removed about an hour ago, and Madam Pomphrey commands a small team of assistants as she studiously tends to the injured. Firenze seems to be recuperating just fine, although he still can't walk, and many others sport serious injuries, but no one seems to be in mortal danger any longer, and for that, she's grateful – she's seen enough death tonight for several lifetimes.

The house tables are littered with battle-weary students and Order members – Hermione and Neville are at the Gryffindor table simply because that's where they'd ended up when all was said and done; nobody is sitting by house anymore. She wouldn't have cared less if she'd ended up sitting on the floor – she's just glad she has something to eat that she didn't have to cook. Most everyone else seems to be thinking the same thing – minus the part about her cooking, of course – since plates are piled high and the sound of gently clinking silverware fills the hall.

A trio across the room draws her attention, their actions so different from everyone else's that they can't help but be conspicuous. No plates sit in front of the Malfoy family, and the three blondes look completely lost, as if uncertain about whether they should even be there in the first place. All three look distinctly disheveled, and Narcissa's face is turned towards the ceiling, eyes closed as if in prayer. Hermione frowns for a moment, contemplating her goals during the war, and makes a decision.

"I'll see you later Neville, alright?"

"Sure thing, Hermione. Go get some rest; you look like you need it."

"Don't we all," she replies with a small smile. Before she can change her mind, she stands up and makes her way towards the Slytherin table. Up close, the Malfoy men look much worse – Lucius's hair is caked with mud and his robes are in tatters, and Draco sports a black eye and dried blood around his nose, probably from when Ron punched him. Judging by her comparatively normal state, Narcissa doesn't seem to have seen much of the actual battle, but the dark circles under her reddened eyes betray her calm façade.

"Come to gloat, Granger?" Malfoy asks quietly.

"What?" she asks incredulously.

"Why else would you-"

"Malfoy-"

"I don't want to hear-"

_"Malfoy…"_

"Granger, just get it over-"

"DRACO!"

The fact that she snaps at him catches his attention, but it's her use of his given name that shocks him into silence. She sighs exasperatedly and runs her fingers through her hair before continuing.

"I don't want to fight anymore," she says finally.

"I…what?"

"I don't want to fight anymore," she repeats firmly. "I've done more than enough of that today, and I have no desire to continue. I can't keep holding onto these stupid school grudges, not when I've seen so much worse."

"Whoa, hang on a second, Granger." He holds up his hand, index finger raised in a 'give me a minute' gesture, and studies her closely while considering her words. She's definitely in a lot worse shape than he – she's covered in dirt, sweat, and blood, and her too-thin frame betrays her malnourishment while on the run. The knees of her jeans are ripped, she's torn off a sleeve of her shirt to use as a makeshift bandage on her forearm, and her hair is falling out of her ponytail, the damp strands plastered to her face. Though her eyes are dry, tear tracks cut through the grime on her cheeks. Despite her haggard appearance, however, she stands with the grace and confidence befitting the Gryffindor Princess, and he can't for the life of him imagine what she's doing here.

"I don't get it," he finally says.

"What don't you get?" Hermione asks.

"What are you doing here?"

"Talking to you," she replies, as if it's obvious.

"Well, yes…but why?" She sighs again and wipes sweat from her brow, leaving a streak of dirt behind.

"Can I sit?"

"What? Oh, um…yes." She takes a seat on the bench opposite him and worries her bottom lip with her teeth for several minutes before speaking again.

"You saved my life," she says quietly. Draco looks at her sharply.

"Granger, I teased you mercilessly, called you names, I wished you dead for Merlin's sake."

"At one time, yes," Hermione agrees. "But that time is long gone. I don't think that Draco Malfoy exists anymore – if he did, he would've jumped at the chance to hand over Harry Potter and company, and I wouldn't be sitting here talking to you. I'd probably be dead," she finishes matter-of-factedly.

"Granger, I stood back and watched while my aunt tortured you. I did _nothing."_ He nearly spits the last word, his voice full of something that sounds like…regret? His father shoots him a questioning look and Draco glares at him, telling him with his eyes to stay out of the conversation. For once, Lucius nods and backs down to his son.

"Honestly Malfoy, what would've happened if you'd done something? We all know that would've gone over real well with your dear aunt – there'd be no 'probably' with regards to my death, and you'd be part of the body count as well. You might see it as 'I did nothing', but I disagree – you chose not to identify us when you bloody well knew who we were, and that definitely counts for something." He's surprised at the fierce determination in her declaration, the brief return of the sparkle in her brown eyes that says, 'I'm not giving up on this one.'

"What I'd like to know, though, is _why_ you didn't turn us in," Hermione continues thoughtfully. His response tumbles from his lips before he can stop it.

"Because I'm a coward," he says, and he can feel the angry flush in his cheeks. "I couldn't watch someone I knew die."

"There's no cowardice in letting someone live, Draco," Hermione replies quietly. He has no response to that.

"Harry told me what you did for him, in the forest," Hermione says, now addressing Narcissa. Draco raises his eyebrows at the two witches – what did his mother do for Potter? – but both shake their heads almost imperceptibly. Perhaps he will know later, but now is not the time.

"I did what had to be done," Narcissa says a little coldly, her blue eyes peering into Hermione's brown ones. Hermione ignores the woman's chilly tone, knowing what lies beneath the polished exterior.

"He also told me _why_ you did it," she continues, her gaze briefly flicking towards Draco again. Narcissa bites her lip and breathes deeply, and Draco is confused. How could such a simple statement have such a profound effect on his normally stoic mother? Hermione can tell she's unsettled the older witch and doesn't want to force her to respond, so she merely offers two words:

"Thank you." Narcissa nods, seemingly getting the message, and Hermione focuses on Draco once more.

"Thank you as well," she says. Draco opens his mouth to protest but Hermione holds up a hand to stop him. "Don't try to counter me, Malfoy. I owe you my life; deny it all you want, but it's the truth and you know it. And because I intend to repay you, I will say what I know when the time comes." His eyes widen when the full impact of her statement hits him.

"You'll…you're going to testify for me?" he asks uncertainly. He knows he'll be put on trial, defector or not, but this false hope is almost too much.

"Yes," she says firmly. Then, glancing at his parents, she adds, "for all of you."

"Granger, I still don't get it. You're the Gryffindor Princess; I'm the Slytherin Death Eater. Why would you do something like this for someone like me?"

"Two reasons, Malfoy," she says simply. "One, as I've already said, you saved my life, and I intend to repay that debt; and two, I believe in looking beyond labels." She stands to leave and offers him her hand. "I expect I'll be seeing you soon." He shakes her hand, still reeling from her words.

"See you soon then, Granger." With a final nod, Hermione leaves the Great Hall. Draco remains seated, thinking hard about what she's said. None of it makes any sense – she's Hermione Granger, Golden Girl, Princess of the Light; he's Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, aligned with the Darkest of the Dark. Her final words replay themselves in his head: _I believe in looking beyond labels._ Trust Granger to be so noble…but in a world where everything was black and white for so long, he's beyond grateful for her willingness to embrace the gray.


End file.
